


Stay

by Anaross



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Dogs, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Series, San Francisco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 09:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3442808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaross/pseuds/Anaross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years after Not Fade Away, Dawn invites Spike to her college graduation. He braces himself to finally see Buffy again, but Buffy surprises him with a secret she's kept from everybody, but can't hide from him: she's dying. She says she wants to be alone for the end, so he'll just have to respect her wishes…right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by diane's heartbreaking vid, Please Stay, using a song written by Warren Zevon when he was dying of cancer. It's sort of an inversion of that vid.
> 
> Disclaimer: Joss owns 'em. I just love them up when he's too mean to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is REALLY miserable hurt/comfort stuff. I must be feeling all whiny and self-pitying to write this. So brace yourself. Misery, despair, groans and lamentations.

_Please Stay  
by Warren Zevon_

_Please stay_  
Please stay  
Two words I never thought I'd learn to say  
Don't go away  
Please stay 

_Don't leave me here_  
When so many things so hard to see are clear  
I need you near to me 

_Will you stay with me to the end?_  
When there's nothing left  
But you and me and the wind  
We'll never know till we try  
To find the other side of goodbye 

_Please stay_  
Please stay  
Two words I never thought I'd learn to say  
Don't go away  
Please stay 

 

Spike couldn't avoid it this time. It was Dawn's college graduation, and she'd emailed him specially and demanded that he attend. He'd never been able to refuse Dawn anything, so he showed up and stayed in the shadows of the old colonnades lining the parade route. He immediately picked Dawn out of the line of graduates walking in the afternoon sun. Her mortar board was tipped precariously over one eye, and her mouth was going a mile a minute, as she discussed whatever with whoever was marching next to her. His little bit. Not so little now.

Then she stopped talking and turned her head and saw him. Funny thing that. She still had a bit of mystical in her, just like that picking him out of the crowd, out of the shadows. She smiled and waved and made a gesture that said he better be waiting right there for her afterwards.

Buffy was there, of course. Spike sensed her, though he couldn't see her. Sensed Xander Harris too, but none of the others. Just as well. He could congratulate Dawn and hand over the little present, and plead sun-allergy, then make his escape back to his hotel. With luck, he'd avoid Buffy altogether. But if not, it would be okay. Any encounter would be over quickly, as they'd have nothing much to say to each other after so long.

He hadn't seen her... well, not for five years, not since that day in the Hellmouth. About a year later, there'd been one awkward phone call (he was the one who called) the day before what he always thought of as The Final Battle, even though it wasn't final– there'd been plenty of battles since. But before it happened, he thought it would be the end, and he called her. Just to hear her voice. Not to say farewell or anything like that. Just to hear her voice again. And that was all he got, her voice, forced and cheerful, saying the predictable– how nice it was that he was undead again, and wasn't that a big crater he'd made of Sunnydale, and say hi to Angel, and oh, there's the doorbell.

So the Final Battle wasn't the end of the world, just the end of his hopes, and he didn't bother to call afterwards. Eventually Dawn tracked him down by email, and they'd kept in touch while she'd studied her ancient languages and he'd travelled the world. They actually had a professional relationship of sorts. He knew most of the demon languages, and Latin and Greek of course, but they didn't teach Sumerian and Urdu when he was an undergraduate, and he hadn't picked up more than a bit since. So he'd gotten used to faxing bits of confusion to Dawn for translation. It impressed the clients, to get the artifacts along with the provenance spelled out in both ancient and modern languages.

They met up a couple times, and she always made sure to mention Buffy, and he made sure to smile and send along his best wishes. It was over. So over sometimes he thought it had never been. Those months with Buffy seemed like a dream now. Didn't seem like him. Didn't seem like her. Dru was more real to him now, even though he hadn't seen her in a decade, and didn't really want to see her again– but inside his head she was a solid presence, occupying whole sectors of memory. Not so Buffy. He could barely remember what she tasted like, what she felt like.

He'd had lovers since then. One was serious– if it hadn't been for the whole vampire-immortality thing, he thought they might still be together. But she couldn't get past that, and so they let each other go. That meant lots of pain, but he'd gotten kind of used to that, except for her getting hurt too. But she married within a year, and had twins soon after, and he thought probably he wasn't much of a memory to her – just another wild experience in a wild time of her youth.

And then there was Amita. Not so serious, but recurrent. She was half-Brax and didn't try to pass as whole-human. Didn't cover up the dark blue streaks beside her ears or dye her hair a more conventional shade of purple. She sang in a demon band in LA, and served drinks at a demon bar, and they'd hook up whenever he was unattached and had a stopover in LA. She was cool and uncaring and he couldn't hurt her if he tried, not that he bothered to try. She worked hard never to love, and she always succeeded, and he admired that.

And a few others along the way... Now he travelled a lot, and stayed in underground lairs and expensive hotel rooms, and he had three good friends– Clem and Dawn and Charlie Gunn– and a grandsire who sometimes sent him some business and sometimes let him borrow a jet, and he thought he was actually making it work, living half in the demon-world and half in the human-world, making money off both. Keeping both safe. Slaying the worst of the demons, scaring the worst of the humans. He'd probably end up killing those too– Angel didn't have any harm-no-human scruples left, that was for sure, but he was older, and he'd always been more ruthless. Spike might eventually get to that point, killing bad guys regardless of genus, but the memory of the chip still held him back from striking final blows when it was a human on the other end of the fist. Better to leave them cowering and bleeding and rethinking their evil ways.

Maybe that was just another way to detach. He didn't know. Detachment was unnatural for him, and sometimes he overdid it. That's what Clem said anyway, when Spike refused to watch the Sleepless in Seattle DVD. (Clem thought getting annoyed by Meg Ryan was a symptom of sociopathy.)

But it felt good now. Detachment. Needed that bad right now. Dawn was coming towards him, eyes smiling, mortarboard in hand, graduation robe flying– and Buffy trailing behind.

He waited in the shadows, and Dawn came into his arms, a slim girl, solid in his embrace, the black robe all warm from the afternoon sun, her cheek salty under his lips. "Bit," he said, putting her away so that he could hand her the flat little box. Then he kept his gaze on her fingers deftly undoing the ribbon, and listened to her excited talk, and didn't look at Buffy at all.

He'd found the bracelet in Bombay two years ago, and had been saving it for Dawn– a tiny gold key on a fragile chain, but it was like Dawn– only looked fragile. It was made of some lost alloy, and even Spike couldn't break the links. "I don't know what it opens," he said, "but it's older than old."

Dawn exclaimed over it and insisted on putting it on her narrow wrist, and held it up for Buffy to admire. And Buffy came closer, into the colonnades, and dutifully touched the bracelet, and then she looked at him, and smiled.

 

"Slayer–" he started to say, because he was detached, but he remembered now that she didn't like being called that. "Buffy."

"Spike," she said, and came to him with her hands out, and he took them and bent to kiss her on the cheek, just as he'd done with Dawn. Only he couldn't help himself. He breathed her deep, took her in– just for a second, just breathed her, nothing anyone could see–

And it hit him, hard, like a kick in the stomach, and he fell back against the brick wall of the colonnade, and she grabbed his arm and held him up, and Dawn was chuckling, like she'd been waiting for some indication that he was still entranced– but Buffy was looking at him, hard, sharp. She shook her head once. Quick. Her hair hid her eyes just for that instant.

She knew. She knew he knew.

And she didn't want Dawn to know.

 

He kept his balance. Exchanged a few polite words when Xander found them– Xander was on his best behavior. Slayer-warned. Dawn-enforced.

Xander didn't know either.

Buffy looked all cheery, and he thought maybe he was just crazy, because it would show in her face, wouldn't it? In her eyes? But she looked the way he remembered– a little thin, her mouth downturned at the corners, her hair as bright as her eyes.

She wouldn't look at him anymore. Looked past him. Smiled at his shoulder. Said goodbye without touching him.

He went back to his hotel and waited till dark, and went after her, and couldn't find her. Found Dawn in a downtown bar with some friends, and she introduced him as "like, my big brother, sort of," and yanked him away because she said that her best friend Natalie was so coming on to him, and he was so dumb he didn't even notice, and Natalie was a good friend but a total slut, so not his type at all, and could he please do the designated driver thing, because she was so drunk, and she'd be so hungover tomorrow when she was supposed to report to Watchers USA for her internship....

He got her to her flat and medicated with some aspirin, and finally when she was done groaning, he asked about Buffy. And Dawn said, her voice muffled by the pillow, "Caught a night flight out to San Francisco. That's where she's living now. Last couple months anyway."

Buffy didn't want him. Nothing new. He could live with that. So he told Dawn goodbye, promised to IM her soon, and went back to his hotel room. At checkout time he packed up and went down to the parking garage and took the dark-windowed limo to the little university airport, where Angel's spare Lear jet was idling. When they were aloft, he called Charlie and told him to track down Buffy's address in San Francisco. Charlie owed him a few favors, or at least a few beers, and could be trusted not to tell Angel anything. (Charlie didn't tell Angel anything these days– safer that way.) He came through with an address in Bernal Heights, and a few hours after sunset Spike was using a credit card to break into the little enclosed porch of her bungalow duplex. He sat down on the cold concrete floor, his back pressed against the shingled wall, and gave into sleep for a minute or so.

She was still a slayer, and woke up and sensed vampire, and came charging out in her pajamas, a stake in her hand, and even after she recognized him, he knew he was in some danger. She was mad and threw the stake at him, giving him barely enough time to catch it, and then she turned and stomped back into the house. "I don't want you here."

Well, that was familiar, in an old tooth-achey way. But when he stopped at the door, his hand flat against the invisible barrier, she said ungraciously, "I guess you can come in," never looking back at him. He followed her to the kitchen and sat at the red tile counter while she banged around making coffee and swearing under her breath. She made just one cup of coffee, in case he might get the idea he was welcome here.

Then she sat down on the stool next to his, took a sip, and set the cup down. She didn't look at him, but her shoulder was hunched up an inch away from his. "You tell anyone, I'll stake you for real."

He didn't have any answer for that. "What is it?"

She stared down into her coffee. "Nothing mystical. Liver cancer. Not much in the way of symptoms. By the time I started feeling bad, it was too late."

"Did the doctors tell you that? That it was too late?"

"Yeah. Too late for chemo. Too late for a transplant." She made _too late_ sound like it referred to a tardy pay check, and his hands itched. He wanted to touch her cheek. Touch her somewhere. She must have sensed it because she leaned away from him, wouldn't look at him.

"You're sure?"  
"I went to the leading specialist. He ran all the tests. Consulted all the other specialists. I tried the last one just the other day." She sighed and extended her arm. There, on the soft skin inside her elbow, were three healing needle marks. She didn't flinch when he touched her there. "Good news is, it doesn't get bad until the end, and that's quick."

Quick. "How long before it gets bad?"

"A few weeks. A month." She shot him a sharp glance. "I haven't told anyone."

"What about Angel?"

She looked startled, as if that was the last name she expected him to say. "I haven't told him. And I'm not going to tell him. And neither will you."

There was a threat in there, but not much heat, and that more than anything made him despair. "Angel's got sorcerers on retainer. Maybe they can–"

"No." She sounded implacable. But then her shoulders sagged. "Weren't you the one who was always saying that magic has its price? So what's the price of magicking me well, huh? Someone else will die in my place."

"Yeah. Probably."

"Angel will tell the sorcerer, make it someone I don't know. So– you know. I won't know. And so someone in China or Swaziland will die, and I'll never know. Only they'll be dead, and they're not supposed to be." Buffy glanced over at him. "You know what I mean."

"I guess." Spike thought maybe the sorcerer could act with pinpoint accuracy, targeting a serial murderer or something like that. Angel had some smart sorcerers. But he knew Buffy well enough-- even this would violate her code. "But you don't want your friends to know either. Giles, or Dawn even? Why?"

"Because. Because no one can do anything to help. And it'll just make them feel bad to know." She sighed. "But now you know."

"Yeah."

"What? Can you smell it on me? Death?" She sounded dismayed, like death might make her smell as bad as the Doublemeat Palace grease once did. Still vain, his slayer.

He closed his eyes. Felt. Opened them and regarded her. "No. Not a smell. A ... feeling. Some predator sense– so we can go after the weakest in the flock."

Now she laughed a humorless laugh, and punched him on the arm. "The weakest, huh? Dream on, vampire. I can still take you."

He rubbed his bicep– just to make her feel better. It didn't hurt. And that scared him more than anything else. She was really sick. He could see it now, in the shadows on her face, in the way she had to work to sit up straight. But she was so proud. She'd always been so proud. Pride was all that was holding her together now. Could he take it from her?

He had to try. "You shouldn't be alone."

"Yeah. I should." She slid off the stool and turned her back on him, walking through the little living room to the screen-door. She opened it and stood there, giving him her challenging look. "Time for you to go."

He rose, holding himself up with one hand on the counter. "You don't want me to stay? I will. If you want me to."

"No. I don't want you here."

It hurt. Still. Not as bad, though. It had been a lot of years since he loved her.

He pulled out his card and set it on the counter. "Okay. Call me if you need me." And then he left, his leather coat brushing her as he went past and out the door. He didn't look back even when he heard the door close.

 

 

He actually left.

Yeah, that was what she wanted. It's just – well, he didn't used to leave when she told him to leave. If she walked away, he'd dog her steps, arguing every foot of the way. If she threw him out of her house, he'd sit on the roof outside her window and smoke– she could smell it, his cigarette smoke, and know he was there. If she hit him enough– god, she'd been such a bitch then– he'd move back a bit, but he'd linger on the edges of her life, looking bruised and beautiful and so damned devoted.

She did get rid of him once. Of course, she had to kill him to do it, handing him the amulet that saved the world but burned him to cinders. And that time he left her alone for years, yet here he was back again. Only this time it didn't take much to make him go. _I don't want you here._ That was all it took.

She stared out through the screen door into the darkness. She couldn't feel him anywhere, even when she turned up the slayer-sense. He was really gone.

She went back into her bedroom and knelt down on the floor to pull a small wooden box from under the bed. This was, like every house since Sunnydale, a temporary place, and she packed light wherever she went. This was all she kept, this box. She sat on the comforter and sorted through the photographs. They were just the ones she had in her wallet when Sunnydale collapsed and Spike died– all she had left of the past, of her slaying years.

There was her mother in the gallery, standing with her hand on some African artifact. She was smiling. She had four months to live, but she didn't know it.

Buffy set that photo back in the box. A school picture of Dawn, fourteen and trying to flirt with the camera, her hair long and shiny. A strip of Willow and Tara from one of those photo booths, Willow sticking her tongue out in one frame, and Tara always shyly looking down. Xander and Anya's official engagement photo– Xander was chubby and two-eyed, Anya was... well, alive, and so pretty. She'd forgotten how pretty Anya was. How proud she looked, her chin up, her mouth kind of pursed like she was about to say _Mrs. Xander Harris._

(Oh, God. Half of them were dead. Mom, Tara, Anya.)

And then a group shot, outside the Magic Box on the sunlit sidewalk. Some passerby had taken it. They were all there, Buffy in the middle, and Willow and Tara and Dawn on one side, Xander and Anya on the other, Giles behind her. But as she always did with this photo, Buffy looked to the side of the building, where the alley was, a dark shadowy place with one small glowing red light. Spike's cigarette. He was there that day, but prevented by sun and general Scoobie disapproval and Buffy's unwillingness from joining the others in front of the camera. But there he'd been, in the darkness, and she hadn't even known. She'd only seen that cigarette glow years later, when she thought he was dead.

She traced the faint outline of his form, the darkerness in the darkness, and she thought of that business card (Spike with a business card– another apocalypse must be on the way) sitting on her counter. She could call him. He'd come back. She knew that like she knew her own name. If she asked, he'd come back.

But she couldn't ask. After all she'd done to push him away, it wouldn't be fair to pull him back now. She'd just be taking advantage of his loyalty. As ever.

Besides, if he still loved her, he would never have left. No matter what she said, he would have stayed.

She put the photos back in the box, and felt around till she found the tennis bracelet. Lots of diamonds, glowing bright in the overhead light. This was the last piece of jewelry she'd gotten from the Immortal. The rest she'd sold in the last few months to pay for all those medical tests and specialists. (Slayers had health insurance now, but she wasn't about to file the forms because Giles might see.) This bracelet she'd saved in case she needed to pay for a transplant. Now she had something to leave to Dawn.

The bracelet hung on her wrist– she'd lost weight. But the diamonds were still perfect, and the setting impeccably tasteful. He had such good taste, the Immortal. She remembered that much. He knew the best jewelers, the finest couturiers. The snootiest maitre'd welcomed him, and her too, while she was on his arm.

She'd been totally in love with the Immortal. Totally. More in love with him than she'd been even with Angel. It was one of those soul-consuming, ego-destroying loves. She'd forgotten everything else when she was with him– her friends and every lover she'd ever had and her past and her future. He was ... her all.

But now she couldn't remember what he looked like. Handsome. Smooth. That's all.

Strange. She could always remember what Spike looked like. Of course, he never changed much– his hair was darker now, but otherwise, he looked the same. But she remembered more than his face. She remembered his expressions, the tilt of his head when he was confused, the things he did with his tongue– curl it under, curl it up, he was such an oral type. She remembered his restless hands and his jiggling foot. She remembered the way he could stand still for about three seconds, and then he'd start moving his shoulders, or raising his arms in a stretch that pulled his t-shirt up and showed his belly, all ivory and flat and muscled. He couldn't ever sit still unless he was very very drunk.

She remembered all that, and the way he tasted too, and the velvety feel of his cool skin. And the tone of his voice when he was hurt or angry or aroused– and he was usually one of those, when he was around her. Sometimes all three at once.

Tonight, though, he had been so quiet. He still tilted his head. Still shredded his paper napkin just to have something to do with his hands. But his voice was low and calm, even when he asked her how long until she died.

She'd think his voice would break. Tremble. But no. He sounded so composed. Even when he said he'd stay if she wanted, it sounded like he didn't really care. And when she told him she wanted him to leave, he said goodbye without a fuss.

She pulled off the bracelet and replaced it in the box. She should have told Spike where she'd hidden the diamonds. Now she'd have to write a note telling Giles where she'd hidden the bracelet. Leave the note on the dresser over there. Sign it with love.

 

 

 

 

The next-door dog started barking early– he always got lonely when his owner left for work. He kept barking. She pulled the pillow over her head and tried to sleep. But finally she rose and made herself breakfast, and planned out her day– a museum, and lunch in a café downtown, and a walk along the waterfront. Nothing too strenuous. She gathered up her purse and her keys, and noticed again Spike's card.

Okay. Just this once. She picked it up and studied it, but found it unrevealing. Spike Williams– well, that was as good a name as any, she supposed. No company. No address. Just a phone number with an LA area code.

She rooted around in her purse and found her cell phone, and before she lost her nerve, she dialed the number. She could hang up as soon as he answered. Just a second though, she'd hear a voice she knew. A friendly voice.

Well, she got voice mail, and it wasn't very friendly. Just a growled "leave a message". But it was his voice. She hung up, smiling, imagining Spike trying to figure out voicemail with a hangover and a cell-phone manual. Of course he'd sound irritable.

She only called once more, this time from a payphone at the museum. Just to hear that growly voice. No message. She didn't even want him to know it was her doing these hangups. But it was nice to hear his voice. A mild charge.

 

Mild was how she felt these days. Mildly curious. Mildly interested. Mildly anxious.

She got home late, just as the sun was going down. She was tired and nauseous, and thought longingly of the wonton soup at China King across the park. It always soothed her stomach, and it was only a five-minute walk away.

But she walked more slowly these days, so it was twenty minutes before she returned with the little cardboard box of soup. She was on her porch, keys in hand, taking a last glimpse as the western sky turned from pink to silver, and she saw a man across in the park, tossing a stick to a dog.

The dog looked like the mutt next door, medium-sized, a white coat with darker patches. The man looked like–

Well, no. That was silly. Spike would be back in LA already, puzzling over those hangups on his voice-mail. Or dancing in a club with some woman. He hadn't looked deprived last night. Hadn't made a move on her or said anything suggestive. Could be that he was repelled by her illness– but more likely, he had his mind on some lady at home. A man who looked like Spike– well, there'd be some woman making a move on him, no matter where he went.

She hesitated, her hand on the screendoor handle. The man still looked like– but no. Spike always wore his leather coat on cool evenings like this. This man was wearing a gray sweatshirt. But he was slim and as he raised his arm to throw the stick, it reminded her of the way Spike used to toss her a stake when she needed it, easy and dead-on.

"Spike," she whispered.

And he looked up, lifted his hand in a wave.

Only a vampire could have heard.

Carefully she set her purse and the soup down on the porch, and walked down the steps and across the street. The dog came bounding over to her, but at a sharp command, stopped and turned back to Spike. She waited there on the verge of the grass, waited for him to come to her.

He took his time, brushing off his hands, zipping up his sweatshirt, bending to fix a leash to the dog's collar. Then, leading the dog, he came over to her. "Hey, Buffy," he said, ducking his head in that shy way of his. "Have you met Kilo?"

"Yeah. He wakes me up every morning." She glared at Spike. "What are you doing here?"

He wouldn't look at her. "Seems like a nice place. Good view. Right across from the park."

"Why do you have my neighbor's dog?"

Spike bent down to pet the mutt. "Part of the rental agreement."

"Rental–" She sighed. Why bother? She knew what he was going to say. But she might as well let him say it. "What rental agreement?"

"Rented the flat. Hey!" He looked up with a smile. "It's the other half of your duplex, isn't it? Share a porch even."

"Yeah. What a coincidence."

"Anyway, your neighbor sublet it to me. He decided to take a long vacation. But he said I have to take care of Kilo."

"How much are you paying?" She knew it had to be a lot, to get the accountant out of there.

Spike shrugged. "Just rent. Oh. Yeah. He made me give him my leather coat."

"Hence the hoodie."

"Yeah. That coat was the last one I had. Hey, you know, the first duster? Lasted me 25 years. And I've gone through 10 of those Italian coats in five years. Who woulda thought it?"

"Who woulda thought it." She gave him a hard look. "Don't think I'm going to hang out with you."

Spike just smiled. Maybe he thought that was going to melt her, but she was tougher than that.

"I mean it, Spike. I told you to leave. I don't want you here."

"Yeah, well, I'll stay out of your way. I got Kilo here to keep me company." He sketched a wave and left her, the dog trotting happily behind him as he headed down the hill.

He could pretend and pretend. But she knew him. He was here because she was here. And he wasn't planning on leaving her alone.

But maybe she was wrong. The next few days, she saw little of Spike. She felt him there, right beside her, but never saw him. She assumed he was gone most of the night, and asleep most of the day. He did manage, somehow, to quiet the dog in the morning, so she supposed just for that reason he was a better neighbor than his predecessor.

Finally she couldn't stand it any more. One evening, she banged on his door, and heard a flurry of barking. There was a short harsh exclamation, and the barking stopped. Then Spike opened, barechested, his hair still wet from the shower. "Yeah?" he said, rubbing his curls with a white towel. He regarded her with only slight interest, and that made her mad.

"I'm coming in." She pushed past him into the hallway.

The dog– apparently locked in the kitchen– started barking again. Spike growled, not loud, but the dog fell silent. "Looks like your place, huh?" Spike said, calm and friendly.

"Yeah." His flat was the mirror of her own– a long narrow front room, sparsely furnished, beyond that the door to the kitchen, and a set of stairs leading to the two bedrooms. But Spike's wood floor was already covered with a Persian rug, and three swords leaned against the side of the plasma TV. "I rented a DVD," she said ungraciously. "Wanna watch?"

He glanced at the watch on his wrist. (When did Spike start wearing a watch?) "Sure," he said easily. "But I have to leave at 11. Pick up a delivery at the wharf."

"Fine." She glared at his bare chest. It was still perfect– muscular and unscarred, the skin glowing like a pearl. "Put on a shirt and come over."

A few minutes later he was there with a bowl of popcorn. And a shirt. Shoes even– nice shiny shoes to go with his unprecedentedly nice shirt. And slacks. Slacks, not jeans. Expensive slacks. Expensive shirt. All black– at least he hadn't changed that much– but some sort of fine cross between silk and linen. It didn't look like the sort of outfit you wore for a midnight package pickup at the docks.

But it wasn't any of her business. She didn't want to know.

The movie was one of those modern Westerns. Lots of sweeping epic cinematographic shots of golden grain and slate blue mountains. Thoughtful themes of alienation and violence. Ample use of the F-word.

Spike complained, at least once all the popcorn was gone and the whore-with-the-heart-of-gold-and-the- breasts-of-silicone got killed halfway through. He said it was so boring he was going to fall asleep. He pretended to be asleep on the other end of the couch, and after ten unprecedented minutes of Spike-silence, she realized he actually had fallen asleep, his head on his own shoulder, his chest occasionally rising in a quiet unneeded breath.

Sometimes he was so pretty– she found herself watching him instead of the movie. The short dark hair made him look younger. Sleep made him look more innocent. It was all so– well. He was here. She didn't need to ask why. She didn't need to know that he felt... sorry for her. Better that he just pretend he happened to be here, and she pretend that she was mad at him for staying.

Of course she was. She wanted to be alone. She should probably make that clearer to him.

But she finished watching the movie, and then, at 10:45, she reached across the popcorn bowl and shook him awake. "Your package. Remember?"

He squirmed. Kept his eyes closed. Flopped over and put his head on the arm of the couch. Murmured something.

"Vampires aren't supposed to sleep at night!" she said, and shook him again. This time his arm was too far away, so she had to shake his thigh. She kept her fingers a bit too long there, maybe traced the muscle under the black cloth, and he growled and opened his eyes.

"Stop that. I'm awake."

"Your delivery, remember?"

"Right." He rose and grabbed his bowl and said, "Thanks for the film," and headed to the door.

"Wait," she heard herself saying. "I want to go."

Spike stopped at the door, bowl dangling from his grip. "But it's just a pickup–" And then he shrugged. "Why not? I'm leaving in ten minutes. If you can get ready that quick, you can come along." And then he added, very casually, "You might bring a stake, and a dagger."

Buffy was ready in eight minutes, with a shoulder bag of weapons (and some wet-wipes, in case the package was messy). It had been a while since she'd needed the artillery, and she found it oddly exciting to be out in the cool night air again, the lights of the city reflecting against the dark sky, Spike by her side and stakes in her purse. He didn't ask if she was up for this, or warn her about the risk– he just assumed, she guessed, that she wouldn't mind a spot of fighting, that if it happened, she'd be ready.

And she was. Really. She felt strong. Stronger, at least. Ready for action.

He had a Jaguar out front, a low, prowly, and black, and when she looked at it inquiringly, he just said, "Rental car." He opened the trunk and grabbed a knife from a box there, and stuck it in the inside pocket of his black sports jacket (Armani, she was sure– who the heck was dressing him these days?). Then he got in the car beside her and eased it down the hill.

Spike knew his way around– she didn't ask how– and in a short time they were down at an out of the way wharf. There was one big ship and a few white cargo containers dropped down on the dock. "Stay here," Spike said, like he was in charge, and got out of the car.

She let him get halfway across the dock, then hopped out. She felt a surge of excitement, because Spike was approaching the first container warily, like he was expecting trouble. But then all he did was knock on the aluminum side– three raps and then two, some kind of code.

The hatch opened, and Buffy could see the best-appointed container interior ever– the metal walls covered with something that looked like maroon silk, a butter-yellow brocade chaise against the back, a wetbar complete with crystal decanters. Hmm. What kind of package was this?

She got her answer when a demon strolled out onto the halogen-lighted dock.

A female demon. Red skin and bright blue hair. Big tits. Small waist. Lots of silver lycra covering the curves.

Spike fell back a step. Then he smiled. It was that smile. The fuck-me, I'm-yours smile that, yes, probably, he had smiled at others over the years. But Buffy found that she still considered this particular smile for her alone. She crossed over to stand beside him, withdrawing the dagger from her bag. And she smiled too, not quite so charmingly.

The demon paid no attention at all to Buffy and her shiny dagger. She gazed limpidly at Spike. "You are my escort?"

"Yeah," he said,. "Name is Spike." He extended his arm, and the demon oohed, and put her little hand on the crook of his elbow, like they were at a ball or something. Buffy cleared her throat. Spike glanced over at her. "And, oh, yeah, this is the slayer. She's supplying the muscle."

"And what do you supply, darlin'?" the demon asked with a throaty chuckle that Buffy supposed was meant to be sexy.

And Spike fell for it. Or at least he smiled that smile again. And when the demon said very prettily that she would love to sit in the front seat so she could see more of the city sites, Spike said, "You don't mind sitting in back, do you, slayer?" not bothering to listen for her answer. He was way too busy opening the car door and helping the helpless demon get her lycra-ed ass and legs inside safely.

Then they got underway, and that demon got even more aggravating. She started speaking some demon language, and Spike responded, and they exchanged comments and laughs like they were old friends.

And then, as Buffy watched from the backseat, the demon reached out and put her hand on the gearshift.

Spike's hand was already there.

Okay. So Buffy was sort of jealous. So it was irrational, considering how hard she'd tried to push him away. But she looked at those two hands, the scarlet one on top of the ivory one, and no matter what she told herself, there it was. She was jealous.

She didn't have any right. She knew that. And that was why she didn't take out her dagger and stab that scarlet demon hand.

Spike drove up to a big house in the hills overlooking the bay. Whoever this demon was, she was important. And that was the way he treated her, like a very important, very attractive personage. When he stopped the car on the circular driveway, he said, "You're up, slayer," as he got out to scout the floodlit area. And Buffy, because she was a pro, gritted her teeth and readied herself. Just in case.

The demon finally took notice of her. "Slayer," she said, rolling the word around on her tongue. At least she was speaking English. "The vampire there. He is... very charming, isn't he?"

Buffy didn't know how best to answer this. Finally she said, "Some people have thought so."

"But you don't?" the demon asked.

Buffy said shortly, "He has his moments."

"Ah. Yes. Well, I suspect he has many moments." The demon smiled back at her, very white teeth gleaming in the darkness. "It is so pleasant to find, in a foreign land, someone who speaks my language– and who smiles so... charmingly."

Buffy glared out the window, and when Spike finally circled back, she shoved open her door. "Time to go," she said, dagger in hand. Spike opened the demon's door, putting his own body between her and whatever. All gallantry.

Buffy got on the other side of the demon, reminding herself of the mission. Always the mission. Protect and preserve, except she wasn't sure why she was protecting and preserving a demon when she was a slayer. She was going to have to discuss this with Spike–

Spike was giving the demon instructions, pointing to the blank air between them on the house. "You can't see it, but I set up a force field that's calibrated to you alone. You can go through, no problem. And you can reach out and pull someone else through. But no one can get through without you–"

Just then the sky opened up and three paratroopers descended on long cables. They came from nowhere– no plane, no copter, just the dark sky and cables reaching up and up, and camouflaged warriors dangling at the bottom.

Spike gave her a shove. "Get her behind the field! I'll stay and–"

Buffy wanted to protest. She was the slayer here– she was the one who gave orders... the one who stayed and fought....

But this was Spike's job, not hers. So she stuck the dagger back in her belt and as the warriors dropped around her, she grabbed the demon by the lycra and jammed her the few feet across the driveway towards the house. There was a buzz as the demon barreled through the force field, and a snap as it closed behind her.

Buffy whirled, dagger in hand, and ran back to Spike. He was handling all three of them in the way she suddenly remembered– taunting them, laughing at them, moving slow and sexy like this was a dance. The cables had vanished, and the three masked warriors– demons, humans, she couldn't tell– were circling, and still Spike kept talking. "Who's on first? Step right up and try and take me."

Of course, they didn't take his suggestion to come one by one to get their punishment. They swarmed, falling back only as Spike made a swath with his sword, and then two coming in from the flanks.

Buffy jumped between them, the old adrenaline coursing through her and filling her with a strength she'd almost forgotten. "Need some help?"

Sword out, Spike turned slowly, so they were back to back, almost touching. "Not as much as they do."

The warriors were wary now that the numbers were more equal. Buffy couldn't see their eyes under the black masks, but she could read their bodies– moving cautiously, lightly on the pavement. That one there on her right was the leader, and the other two were waiting from some signal. She didn't give him any more time. She threw the dagger at his head, sinking the point into the mask just above his eyes, then flung herself at him and jammed her palm against the hilt. The howl of pain cut off abruptly– she must have severed some nervous system conduit– and she grabbed back the dagger and turned to see Spike holding off the other two.

They still fought well, even without their leader, keeping Spike occupied– first one feinting and then both attacking. Buffy jumped on the nearest one's back and plunged the dagger into the neck, withdrawing it to stab again at the same spot. The warrior reached back and grabbed at her wrist, and she jammed the dagger into his palm. "Go for the eyes!" Spike yelled, hurling his sword away and pulling a short knife from his belt.

Buffy clung to the warrior's back, trying to evade his clawing hands, trying to reach around his head, and – half-blinded by sweat and blood– she turned the dagger around and pulled. She hit bone and knew she'd missed the eye, so she yanked the dagger out and tried a little higher. The point met something mooshy, and she cried out with pleasure as the warrior collapsed slowly under her.

Spike was dispatching his own adversary, adding a few unnecessary insults and a kick as the warrior fell to the ground. Automatically– like it was years ago– Buffy and Spike high-fived. The perfect team.

This, at least, they'd always done well together.

And she was okay. Panting, knees weak, elbow throbbing. But no one would ever guess that she was sick.

Spike didn't remember her illness, apparently. He cut short the congratulations. "Grab them and pull them into the brush over there," he said. "I'd best go check on her."

"Yeah, right." Buffy watched him swagger towards the house– that inimitable Spike swagger, all sex and victory. The demon was waiting on the other side of the force field, and as soon as Spike approached, she reached out and grabbed his hand, drawing him through.

"And I get stuck with cleanup duty," Buffy muttered. She dragged one warrior after another into the bushes, looking up in time to see the demon, all smiles, handing Spike a card.

"Got to take the slayer home," he was saying, glancing back at her.

"I hope it doesn't take long," the demon cooed.

The slow burn started inside Buffy. Okay. So it wasn't so slow. A quick burn. So the demon– safe behind her forcefield, her silver lycra catsuit kept pristine– was all ready to reward him, and Spike was already to be rewarded.

And Buffy, her blouse all slimed with the blood of honorable combat– combat helping Spike out, in case he'd forgotten– was no longer a partner, now just a passenger.

She let this burn through her all the way home. How could he be so stupid... so ungrateful... so easy? How could he be such a ... a dog to make a date right in front of her?

As he parked the car in front of their house, she let the words burst out. "She's just going to use you. Like a sex-toy."

"Oh, right," he shot back. With a single, sharp motion, he set the emergency brake. "Only you get to do that."

"I didn't mean–" she sat there, breathing deeply. Got to get under control, she told herself. "I only mean that you have to have seen it."

"You mean the only reason a woman might want me is for sex. Point taken." He got out of the car and closed the door firmly behind him, then strode to his apartment.

Buffy got out more slowly. Okay, that was progress. He felt sure enough of her to get mad at her. At least he wasn't treating her like an invalid.

Of course, he assumed she thought – she sighed. How could he think that? It had been, what? Six years since they had sex.

Since she used him as a sex-toy. And that's what he remembered.

But that was exactly why she kept the relationship platonic after that. Didn't he understand?

He should understand. Not that she'd ever explained it. But he should have understood. She kept herself back because– because it was wrong, what they once did. What she once did. And it was wrong what he was planning with that demon.

In her flat, she stripped off the dirty clothes– absently realizing it had been months since she'd had to spray stain-remover on a blood splatter– and got in the shower. Then she heard the groan of pipes that meant the hot water heater next door was also revving up. Spike must be in the shower too. Naked. A few yards through that wall. She put her hand on the tiles and let the water course over her, and thought, I can't. I can't do this to him.

But once she was dry and in her flannel pajamas in front of the TV, she found herself listening not to the re-run of late-night news, but to the noise of activity next door: the dog's bark, and Spike's low voice soothing him, and the slamming of the front door–

She was out on her porch in an instant. She didn't know she could move that fast anymore. Spike was still on his steps, holding his cell-phone in game-face so he could better see the number on a card. That demon's card. He was going to call her and–

"Spike," she said, and he looked up, the game-face fading into his usual features. Then she pushed open her screen door. "Come here. Stay with me tonight."

He stared at her for a moment, and then, slowly, he pocketed the phone. "Okay."


	2. Chapter 2

She was scared to be naked with again. She wasn't like he'd remember. Her skin wasn't golden anymore, and her ribs showed, and the biopsy scar glowed an angry red. But she should have known he wouldn't notice, or if he noticed, he wouldn't care. Or if he cared, he wouldn't let her know. All he did was touch her, kiss her, murmur sweet things to her mouth and her breasts. She thought maybe he was just being... nice. Working at it. Faking it. Pretending he still wanted her.  
  
"Do you want me?" she asked, pulling his head down to her shoulder, trying to make her question sound sexy, not plaintive. Like she didn't really need to know.  
  
"A trifle," he said, licking her neck, a long, longing lick, and he bumped her thigh with his erection.  
  
Yeah, he wanted her. He had to want her. He couldn't fake that. She opened herself to him, pulled him closer, imagined– oh, imagined this was years ago, when he'd first come back to the world, imagined that she had gone to him then, and that they had so much time left together....  
  
Well, they had tonight, and tomorrow, and however many days and nights were left.  
  
Afterwards she couldn't sleep, though she was exhausted. He stayed awake too, holding her, quiet now. He never used to be quiet after sex. He used to whisper to her, whisper all sorts of things, and sometimes she'd let him whisper until she couldn't bear it anymore.  
  
But now he was quiet. Just when she needed him to --  
  
"Do you still love me?" she asked suddenly.  
  
He moved against her, kissed the hollow at the base of her throat. "I guess so."  
  
This startled a laugh from her. "You don't sound really enthusiastic about it."  
  
"Yeah, well, I thought I'd gotten over that. Guess I haven't."  
  
She started to say it. Started with, "Well, I–"  
  
And then his fist was on her mouth. Not hard. Not painful. Just there, blocking her words. "Don't."  
  
And she reached up and shoved his hand away. "Why not?"  
  
He was silent for a moment, then said, "It won't be real."  
  
"You–" and then she pushed away from him and turned her back. "You don't believe me. It's not the same as you feel, so it doesn't count, huh?"  
  
"I don't know. All I know, it's going to hurt really bad if you say that. So... don't."  
  
"I don't get you," she said. She was crying. She'd been so careful not to cry these last weeks. But this was anger and not self-pity, so it was all right. "That's all you wanted for years. But when I actually finally said it, you didn't believe it, and now you won't even let me say it."  
  
"Yeah." He moved up next to her, maneuvering his hand between her legs. "Let's just not worry it then."  
  
She was going to protest, but instead her legs fell open– not something she'd planned– and she turned her head and kissed him, and she just thought the words as hard as she could, until she couldn't think much anymore.  
  
  
  
He'd let his phone battery die, some kind of passive-aggressive thing, probably, at least that's what Dr. Phil would say. The charger was in his LA flat, so when he and Buffy went out that Friday evening, he made a stop at an electronics store to pick up one that attached to his car power. He found Buffy by the mp3 players. She was reading the package of an iPod. Without looking at him, she said, "It says this can hold 25,000 songs."  
  
He knew what she was thinking– that even if she had those headphones on 24/7, she didn't have enough time to listen to an iPod-full of songs.  
  
He went up beside her and bumped her with his shoulder. "Only 25 songs worth listening to more than once anyway."  
  
She smiled and slid the package back onto the rack. "Let me guess. Well, there are those six Ramones songs you used to play over and over and over."  
  
"And there were maybe seven Clash songs. And the Sex Pistols. They had ten good songs. There's that Dead Kennedys one, and I'd listen to a few of the old Who--"  
  
"That's all you get! You said 25. "  
  
She was laughing now, and encouraged, he said, "I'll make a mix, and we can listen to it tonight. Rev you up. Get you in the mood to party."  
  
"Yeah, right. Get me in the mood to kick you and your mix out of bed." But she put her hand in his, and insisted that they actually take the phone charger to the cash register and pay for it, and that display of righteousness set her up for the rest of the night.  
  
Later he waited until she was asleep, her hair tangled on his pillow, before he pulled on his jeans and went barefoot out to the porch and, shivering in the cool night, used the recharged phone to check his messages. Two from Charlie, just checking in, and one from Amita– now that was a surprise. She wanted to tell him the band had a new set, and she was singing that Billie Holliday song he liked (okay, he would maybe put Billie on his playlist, kick off that Dead Kennedys song), and he should come by and give it a listen. He glanced at his watch– she'd still be onstage– and he called her voice mail and left a quick message that he was out of town for– he was about to specify an amount of time, but he couldn't do that, not yet– for awhile, and would come by when he got back.  
  
It felt... illicit. He'd always been a one-woman man, and Buffy had to be that one woman now. But Amita and he had been together, in that halfway sense, for two years now. He owed her at least this much.  
  
Finally, there was a short message from Angel. No name given, just the growled, "Got a job for you."  
  
He called, and Angel answered on the first ring. There was opera music in the background. "Can't do the job," Spike said, "I'm taking some time off." He didn't have to ask for permission– he didn't work for Angel, just occasionally did a demon-retrieval-or-destruction job for him. He expected Angel to ring off and consult the next demon-hunter in his Rolodex.  
  
But wouldn't you know it, the old man wanted to talk. "Where are ya?"  
  
At least he was ignorant of Spike's true location, meaning that both Charlie and the corporate jet pilot kept their mouths shut. Spike said, "Up in the hills. Taking a break."  
  
Angel was quiet for a moment, then said, "You're with a girl."  
  
"A lady." Given Angel's own antipathy towards romance, sex, love, and anything to do with women, Spike figured that would be the end of it. But no. Angel was in a chatty mood, something that happened once in a half-century or so.  
  
"Who?"  
  
Buffy would kill him if he let it slip he was with her. "Just a lady friend."  
  
"Not that redhead."  
  
"Claire?" That was the one he'd broken his heart over as soon as it had mended from Buffy. "Nah. She's married. Living in Redondo with her babies, last I heard."  
  
"Good. I never liked her."  
  
This was getting surreal. "You never even met her."  
  
"Still didn't like her. Treated you like shit."  
  
Angel really must be drunk. And sentimental. It was embarrassing, so Spike said quick, "No, she didn't. We broke up, that's all. And I'm with someone ... new, anyway. So I'm going to be–"  
  
"That singer? The Brax?"  
  
Now that was scary. Angel knew way too much about Spike's love life. Had to be spying on him. That was prospect was as worrisome as Angel's sudden interest in him.  
  
"Not her either. Look, we sort of want to be left alone, so – "  
  
"Yeah. Right. Okay. Check in, will ya? When you come down from the mountains."  
  
Spike looked out across the park to the city spread out below. "Yeah. Will do."  
  
"And–" Angel let the pause grow, and then said in a rush, "have a good time."  
  
Well, that was novel. Spike closed the phone and went back inside, stripping and getting back in bed beside Buffy. She stirred and murmured, "You okay?"  
  
"Top-drawer." He wanted to make love again, probably mostly to get Angel out of his head, and there wasn't much more effective method of Angel-mind-removal than sex. But he didn't want to tire Buffy out.  
  
Too late. She turned to him, eyes still closed, and wound her arms around his neck. "You're all cold," she whispered. "Got to get you warm."  
  
"That'll take some doing," he said, but she shut him up with kisses, and she was right, that warmed him up straightaway.


	3. Chapter 3

As far as Buffy could tell, Spike was on his best behavior. He only slipped out to the neighborhood tavern a couple times, and didn't come back drunk, and he didn't complain when she made him sit with her and watch OC (although he did say at least five times that Dawson Creek was way better). He spent every night holding her, though sometimes when he thought she was asleep, he got up and left the house and came back with his face wet like he'd been out in the fog. He seldom checked his email and his voice mail only when she insisted. He was hers. Completely. At least for the time being.  
  
But one evening he took the dog for a run in Herons Head Park along the bay, and they were gone for hours, and when the rain started beating on the roof, she gave in to fear. He'd left town, and he wasn't coming back. He'd gone back to whatever girl he'd left behind to be with her. He couldn't stand to be with her anymore, be with her illness and her deterioration and her inevitable ending. She sat down on the hard wood floor in his living room and curled into her own arms. She didn't love him enough and he finally figured out he deserved better.  
  
The door banged open and she jumped up, dashing the tears from her face.  
  
"Bloody hell, woman, don't you ever answer the phone?"  
  
He was standing there, his black clothes even darker with the damp, his hair in wet ringlets about his head. Kilo, a step behind him, shook himself, spraying droplets all over Spike, then collapsed in an exhausted heap in the doorway.  
  
"The phone?"  
  
"Yeah, the one I've called three times. Bloody car wouldn't start. Had to walk home in the rain, and that damned dog wanted to be carried--"  
  
He pushed past her, dropping clothes in wet heaps as he went. She swallowed back her laughter. He was really mad. He almost never got mad anymore, not around her, so it was kind of fun to hear him swearing and kicking doors just like old times.  
  
She followed him down the hall. "You called my phone."  
  
He threw his shirt out of the bathroom. It barely missed her, splattering her with raindrops. He would have made it hit her if he really wanted to get her wet. "Yeah, I called your phone. From a payphone. Till I ran out of change."  
  
"I was here. Your flat. You might have called here–"  
  
"Yeah," he growled, yanking the shower curtain closed with unnecessary force, and then yelling over the rush of water,"and you'll probably say I might have remembered to take my cell phone, and my wallet, and called a cab. All I know is you weren't where you were bloody supposed to be, and neither was my money, and it's got to be four miles uphill, and I had to carry that sodding dog–"  
  
She let him rant on until he finally switched it off, and switched the shower off, and stepped out wet and naked. By that time she'd gotten her expression straightened out and tamed the grin that would probably just irritate him further. But it was funny. Spike at a payphone, jamming his hand into this pocket and that pocket, swearing when he couldn't find his wallet.  
  
"So you ran out of change."  
  
He wrapped a towel around his waist and stalked past her into the bedroom. "Yeah."  
  
"So... you break the payphone?"  
  
He paused, t-shirt pulled on over both arms, then he yanked it down over his head. "I'm redeemed, remember? I don't do that shit anymore."  
  
Then he stuck his hands behind his back, and she crossed the room to him. "Let me see."  
  
Slowly Spike extended his right hand and turned it palm-down. The knuckles were unblemished. "Give me the other hand," she said.  
  
Sullenly he withdrew the other hand from behind his back and held it out to her. The middle three knuckles were laid open to the bone. She tsked and went back into the bathroom for the first aid kit. When she returned, he was sitting on the bed, his wounded hand in his lap. She sat down beside him and got to work bandaging the cuts. It felt good– felt like old times. Even before they were lovers, they used to patch each other up like this. And it made her feel more powerful, more loving, to be taking care of him for a change.  
  
"You really did a number on the phone, huh?"  
  
"Didn't work. It was built like a Mack truck. I got the damned thing open, but the change box was armored. And by that time–" he was looking down at the gauze– "phone didn't work anymore."  
  
"The phone company probably knows there are vamps around that neighborhood, so they reinforce the phones to keep them out."  
  
"No vamps," Spike said, flexing his fingers as she taped him up. "Something's scared them all away. A big demon– could sense him there by the power plant, but couldn't see him. Leflox maybe. Kilo smelled him too. Stupid dog. Got scared, and started cringing, and wouldn't walk."  
  
"So you had to carry him home, huh? With a big demon around, and your hand ripped up."  
  
He pulled his hand back and rose. "I'm all right."  
  
She said sternly– she liked being stern with him– "Your healing isn't as advanced as it ought to be. Are you eating enough?"  
  
"Forgot to today."  
  
"Spike–"  
  
"I'm okay."  
  
But he wasn't. She suddenly realized that. He was on edge all the time now, and trying not to let her know. He was trying to stay so even, so calm. So unlike him. It was hard on him to be here, and she should send him away. For his own good.  
  
The prospect filled her with desolation again.  
  
But it was okay. She could generously send him away, but he wouldn't go. She knew that now that he was back here. He wasn't going to leave her.  
  
She waited until he'd called the rental car agency and told them to pick up their sodding useless car. When he hung up, she said, "You didn't order another car."  
  
"I'll just use yours. Don't need two cars here."  
  
It was stupid, how good that felt, that he'd just assume it was okay with her. After so many years, so many confrontations, so many complications, it meant something that he'd be able just to assume something. That meant she could assume too. Of course, that's what she'd been doing all along, and it was just tonight that her confidence failed.  
  
It was still a little shakey. So, as casually as she could, she asked, "Then you planning to stay? Until–" She didn't finish. She didn't have to. And she didn't have to look at him to know what he was feeling.  
  
"I told you. I'll stay." And then added, "If you want me to."  
  
She risked a glance up at him. He was standing there by the phone table, tense, watchful. Waiting. It didn't matter. They both knew he'd stay whether she said she wanted him to or not. He'd already proved that. She didn't have to say she wanted him to stay to get him to stay.  
  
She didn't have to take any risk at all. She never had to with him. He would always do more than she asked. He would always read her and know what she needed. Nothing had changed in the five years they'd been apart– hey, probably even that was because he read her so well and knew she needed him gone. Now he knew she needed him to stay, and he'd stay, and she didn't have to ask.  
  
And so, very low, she said, "Please stay. Until the end. I need you to stay."  
  
"Sure."  
  
He turned away quick, but she could almost taste his tears.  
  
  
  
  
She thought she'd feel sicker, duller, as time went on. But the closer the end came, the more alert she became, the more sensitive. Colors were more vivid, tastes exploded in her mouth. She could smell the ocean though they were miles away. When she told Spike this, they were lying in bed, the pale light of an overcast afternoon filtering through her drapes. He smiled and said, "That's what it felt like when I first got turned. Like _I could burst Joy's grape against my palate fine_."  
  
She stared at him until he said, "Keats."  
  
Okay, he was on his best behavior, but he still did that poetry thing. And then she considered what he'd just said and grabbed his arm. "Promise me you won't do that."  
  
"Quote Keats?"  
  
"Turn me."  
  
He said, "I wouldn't do that without your asking me."  
  
"I won't ask you," she said fiercely.  
  
"Then I won't."  
  
He turned her over on the bed and started rubbing her back, easy, gentle. Then he commented, "You'd make a great vamp."  
  
"That's what I'm afraid of." She half-laughed, her face muffled in the pillow. "I'd be like Darla, wouldn't I? Ruthless."  
  
"But hotter. And that's saying a lot."  
  
"Gee, thanks, Spike."  
  
"You were the one who mentioned her," he said. "And anyway, you'd be better. A master vampire from the first night."  
  
"Yeah?" She wasn't about to let him turn her, but still it made her smile. "Why do you say that?"  
  
"Well, you're already a champion at sucking."  
  
Okay, that was more than enough. She reared up, pushed him down– not that it took much, he was laughing so hard, and yanked down his sweatpants. He was hard– whether from memories of Darla or Buffy's manhandling, she didn't want to know. "You mean like this?" she murmured, and bent and took him in her mouth and pulled hard.  
  
"Ah. Yeah. Like that. Just like that. Just.... like that."  
  
  
  
After that, Spike fell asleep– typical man, she thought, though of course he wasn't typical at all. She couldn't even close her eyes. There was so little time left, and sleep was so irrelevant. A waste of time. He needed it still, but she didn't.  
  
So she left him in her bed, dashing off a quick note and leaving it on the table in case he woke and found her gone. Then she went across the porch to Spike's flat and whistled for Kilo– recovered from his ordeal the night before and as usual eager for a walk– and they went out into the misty afternoon.  
  
She went up the hill– figuring she might be tired on the way back and appreciate a downhill walk. On the other side was a commercial district, a dozen storefronts stuck together on in a long block. At the end of the strip was a butcher shop, and, after tying Kilo to a parking meter, she went in.  
  
Buffy had been in a lot of towns since Sunnydale, and she'd long since realized that butchers only opened shops in towns with a critical mass of vampires. In fact, she'd decided that it was vampires– the relatively unmurderous or at least incompetent kinds– keeping butchers in business all over the country. The white-aproned one behind this counter didn't even blink when she asked for three frozen quarts of pigs' blood.  
  
But still she felt it necessary to come up with some excuse, just in case he thought the order was for her. "I– I'm going to make blood pudding," she said. "My boyfriend is, you know, British." My boyfriend. Wow. That felt good. She wished that Spike was around to hear her say that, all casually and conversationally.  
  
"British, huh?" the butcher said. He reached over to a freezer– it was the top-loading type common in ice-cream stores– and pulled out three fat crimson zip-locked bags. "Yeah. He comes in here sometimes." He stored the blood in a discreet brown-paper grocery bag, and handed it over after she counted out the payment. He was about to say something, then stopped, then started again. "You take care with that boyfriend, okay?"  
  
She nodded and left, collecting Kilo and starting back home. The butcher meant, of course, that she should take care that Spike didn't bite her. But "take care with him" kept going through her head. That was what she was trying to do.  
  
In her kitchen, she warmed up a bag of blood and took it on a silver tray with a mug and a straw into the bedroom. It was too dark to see much more but his form under the coverlet, and she felt her way over to the bed. Setting the tray on the nighttable, she turned on the bedside lamp and kissed him awake, then made him drink down the entire quart. When he was all done, she set everything aside and climbed into bed beside him. It felt good to take care of him for a change, to worry about his cuts and bruises, to pretend he was the invalid.  
  
"I told the butcher," she said, settling in next to him and putting her arm across his chest, "that my British boyfriend likes blood pudding."  
  
Spike didn't open his eyes. "And the butcher told you the only Brits who still like blood pudding are vampires, I bet."  
  
Exasperated, she said, "You're missing the point."  
  
"What's the point, pet?"  
  
She put her hand on his cheek and waited till he opened his eyes and looked at her. "The point is, I called you my boyfriend."  
  
He regarded her for a moment, then raised his head and kissed her chin. "Good for you." He dropped his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes.  
  
It felt like _No, you don't_ all over again. "Spike!" She shook his arm. "Is that all you have to say?"  
  
  
He sighed. "What do you want me to say?"  
  
She stared down at him. "Oh, I don't know. Something about how cool it is that I called you my boyfriend? That I acknowledged that?"  
  
In a single quick movement, he flipped her over, so that he was above, looking down at her. "I've always been your boyfriend. When we've been together, anyway."  
  
"Oh." She frowned. "You mean you'd be more impressed if I said I was your girlfriend."  
  
"Just so."  
  
She wound her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. Then, when his mouth was all soft, and his eyes dreamy, she said, "Okay. I'm your girlfriend. Your very own."  
  
"Tell that to the butcher," he whispered, sliding down beside her.  
  
"Maybe I should just go down to the Mission district and have a tattoo put on my forehead? 'Property of Spike?'"  
  
"Works for me."  
  
And when he smiled like that, she could almost pretend that was what they were, just boyfriend and girlfriend lying together in bed, with months and years yet to enjoy.


	4. Chapter 4

By the end of the week, Buffy was tired all the time, but couldn't sleep. She couldn't keep food down till late afternoon, and even then she only ate because Spike insisted. Odd things hurt– one foot and then her shoulder, lots of bruising on her stomach and back. It was all close enough to fight injuries for her to pretend it was no big deal. And she was a slayer– she knew that her body was fighting off the pain, fighting off the weakness.  
  
But she knew the end was coming. Of course. Happy at last, at peace, loved, and she was approaching the end.  
  
But then, would she prefer to be miserable and alone these final days?  
  
The plummet into incapacity would be a sudden one, and she felt herself on the brink. So one night after they made love– they weren't doing that so much anymore, maybe just once a night, and now he always waited for her signal– she said, her cheek hot against his chest, "Listen, I don't want to... to fade away. Be hooked up to tubes and machines. And I don't want the rest to know. I don't want to wait until the end comes." He was so entirely silent that she had to ask, "Do you understand?"  
  
"You ask too much of me." He pulled away, got up, pulled his pants on.  
  
"Wait," she said, rising and following him to the bedroom door. She pressed up naked against him. "Wait."  
  
"Don't say it." His voice was ragged. "Just don't."  
  
"Okay." She put her arms around his waist, pressed her face against his bare chest. "I know. I know. I keep being cruel to you, and I don't even mean it."  
  
He let her lead him back to bed, and when they were settled again, he said, "Are you going to do it yourself then?"  
  
"Oh," she cried, half-laughing, "I can't do it myself. Slayer survival skills. But maybe – to go down fighting, you know. A warrior's death. Me against a demon. That's what I want. But–"  
  
"But I have to stand back. Let it happen. That's what you're saying."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Or I could leave. Let it unfold without me."  
  
Desolation filled her. Or emptied her. "I guess so."  
  
He took a deep breath and gathered her close. "I won't leave. I said I'd stay with you until the end. I meant it. Just... just let me know when to... to let it go."  
  
"Okay," she said. And then, after a moment, she whispered, "I need you to understand."  
  
"I understand. I agree." He stirred against her, all tension, all release. "This is the way you should end."  
  
  
  
She tried to stay positive. There was so much in the world that she would miss– the cool nights and the mysterious fogs and the sounds of children in the park. Emails from Dawn, and chocolate, and Spike's arms around her. She didn't want to give it all up.  
  
But she didn't have a choice. All she could decide is when the giving up would be. And she better decide quick, or she might not be able to make that decision much longer.  
  
They went out in that evening, scouting for a likely demon nest. It had to be a demon, not a vamp– she wasn't about to be bested by any vamp except Spike, and he'd already declined. And it had to be big and nasty, able to kill her with a single blow, because she knew her slayer instincts (and most likely Spike) wouldn't hold off for more than a minute. "I don't want you blamed," she said as they pulled up in the nature park by the bay. This was where Spike's car had malfunctioned, where all the vamps had fled, where he and Kilo had sensed the demon.  
  
The towers and traffic noises of the city were behind them, the two freighters blaring their horns ahead in the dark water. But here was only a long stretch of swampgrass, a little beach, and the calls of frogs and seabirds in the night.  
  
"Don't worry about me." He always said that– like it was no big deal, the interrogation he'd get afterwards, Giles with his notebook and Dawn with her grief and Xander with his suspicions.  
  
"I do worry about you. And you can't stop me." She got out of the car and slammed the door. It didn't break. She was getting so weak. The moon was reflecting on the bay and bathing the long grass with a pale light. "Where did you sense the demon the other night?"  
  
He pointed over towards the power plant, which loomed on the promontory above them. "Under there."  
  
They both noticed it at the same moment, the change in the air, the sudden ominous absence of sound. "There it is," Buffy whispered, though she couldn't see it in the shadows under the cliffs. She hadn't planned this, but suddenly it felt right– just to attack, and be attacked, to fight and to lose. Now. Here. Tonight. "Let's go."  
  
But Spike grabbed her and held her back, grabbed her close, held her tight. His body was hard and resistant against her. "No," he said, and she heard his voice tight with tears. "No. I'm not ready. Let me have one more day with you."  
  
Every instinct pulled her away– towards the demon, towards the fight, towards the end. But she let Spike hold her. "All right," she said. "We can have tonight. And tomorrow."  
  
  
  
She had to make their last tomorrow seem like just another day, as far as anyone could tell. So that last day, she sent Dawn an Internet joke and signed it Love-- B, and she waited until she knew Giles would have left the office and left him a voice mail asking how Dawn was doing in her internship. And that was all. She wanted to call Willow and Xander, just to hear their voices, but it would be too much of a coincidence, her contacting everyone the same day.  
  
As the sun set, she sat on the porchswing with Spike and ate strawberries, and went through the photos one more time, pointing out his glowing cigarette. "When I thought you were gone, I used to look at that and look at that. It was the only picture I had of you."  
  
"I quit smoking when I came back. Or never started up again. Gave all the money I saved to the poor."  
  
He said this with such a saintliness that she knew he was lying. "Or used it to buy beer instead," she said. "Listen. Just let Giles take charge afterwards. It'll help him, and he has all my instructions. He's had them since I was 16."  
  
"That's a long time," Spike replied. "Longest lived slayer." He added, kicking the swing into gentle motion, "Only because I let you go so many times."  
  
This made her laugh. He was so arrogant. "Yeah, well, I think I let you go a few times too."  
  
"I had you that first time. In the school. If your mom hadn't shown up–"  
  
"Oh, big bad vamp. Scared of my mom."  
  
"Yeah, well, you blame me? Scary woman, your mother. Dab hand with an axe."  
  
They fell silent, remembering. Then she said, "Don't forget. I want to be near her–"  
  
"I know. I know."  
  
"Let Giles say it. He'll know. It's in the instructions."  
  
Spike stood abruptly, rocking the swing so she had to cling to the armrest. "Sun's down. Let's go."  
  
But she wasn't going to do it that way. The time for impulse had passed. She rose and went into her apartment, where he was opening her black vinyl bag, packing the weapons she'd never use. She took his arm, pulled his hand away from the axe, kissed his mouth. "Let's lie together a little while. Wait for the light to fade. Then we'll go."  
  
He drew away, put his hand to cover his eyes. Then he said, "Okay. A little while."  
  
Later that night, she faced the demon, but she realized that wasn't the real end. The real end was that evening, with the two of them lying together, as the light died around them, and the whispers faded, and she held him close. And that went on forever.


	5. Chapter 5

When it was over, Spike made the calls, then washed and dressed Buffy, or what was left of her. She'd always been so _in_ her body, and now it was clear she was gone. The body he knew so well was alien to him now. But it was hers, and so he sewed up the terrible rip in her gut, hiding the disease inside, and put on her favorite slaying outfit, the tan blouse and the dark brown suede slacks, and then found a tarp in the shed in back  
  
He'd seen so many dead bodies in his time, most of them dead by his hand, or fangs. The guilt over that threatened to overcome him, as expected. But he looked down at her face, composed and calm under the clear tarp, and he knew that guilt was just another escape. He had done right by her, and he should let that be true. It wasn't recompense, or penance. It was just the right thing, and he had done it.  
  
The soul, maybe. If he didn't have the soul, he would have turned her, her scruples be damned. He had her and he wanted to have her forever.  
  
But what he wanted wasn't paramount. So he put her body in the bathtub and packed it in ice, because he wanted her still herself when Dawn came.  
  
He had lost her forever. If there were places beyond, she would be going where he could not follow.  
  
But he had her once, held her close, heard her whisper. _Please stay._ That was trade enough for eternity.  
  
  
  
Xander was working just down in Morro Bay, so he arrived first, silent, suspicious. Sorrowing, maybe. Hard to tell. He was so closed now.  
  
Spike showed him the bathtub full of ice and Buffy, and Xander said, "You can't let Dawn see her in a bathtub. She needs a casket."  
  
And Xander went away, and came back later in the afternoon not with a coffin he'd bought from some funeral home, but with a load of clear pine planks in the back of his pickup. He unloaded it from the alley and set up in the backyard, producing from the truck a saw and a toolbelt and a sawhorse made of aluminum instead of wood.  
  
He built it all by hand. Sawed the planks and planed the edges and hammered in the nails. Once the sun went down, Spike helped where he could. He was no woodworker– didn't much like wood, all things considered– but he'd carved enough stakes in the last decade to know how to smooth away splinters. They worked in silence until the box was serviceable, even elegant in a plain Wesleyan-chapel sort of way.  
  
Then they lined it with another tarp and carried it into the house and set it beside the bathtub. Spike went to the hallway linen closet– and if Xander wondered how Spike knew the layout of Buffy's place so well after only a few days, he didn't ask– and found a dark-blue satin bedsheet, the one Buffy had on the bed the second night they'd been together here (and never used again, once she'd slid right off the slippery surface and to the floor). He laid it over the tarp, and Xander tucked it in, and they both lifted Buffy's body out of the tub and into the casket.  
  
"We need the ice," Spike said. "We can take it off before Dawn comes."  
  
Xander said nothing, only transferred four of the bags of ice and arranged them on the plastic covered body.  
  
They carried the casket to the second bedroom, and set it on the floor. Spike turned to go, but finally Xander spoke. "She always said she had an expiration date. Like a bag of Cheetos. I guess it finally arrived."  
  
Spike couldn't answer. He stared at the casket, at Xander standing beside it.  
  
"I'll stay here. Sleep on the couch," Xander said. "Dawn and Willow are coming in on the early flight tomorrow– I'll pick them up."  
  
Spike nodded and started out to his own flat. But Xander's voice followed him. "Tell me. It must have been bad. That you couldn't stop it."  
  
Carefully, Spike said, "I– I tried. There were three of them."  
  
Xander didn't speak for a moment. Then, very quietly, he said, "It must have been her time. If you couldn't stop it, the two of you."  
  
It meant something. Acceptance. Forgiveness. Spike didn't know. "Yeah. Well. I put some food and beer in the fridge. Help yourself."  
  
And then he went to his own flat, where Kilo was waiting, leash in mouth, ready for his nightly walk.  
  
  
  
He'd almost gotten to sleep, halfway through morning, when he heard Willow and Dawn arriving, banging doors, dropping luggage, exclaiming. He closed his eyes, sought sleep. Xander could deal with them. Spike couldn't, not yet.  
  
But he lay there tense and wakeful until he heard the front door slam and sensed that Dawn was alone. Slowly he dressed and made his way across the porch to the other flat. He'd hardly entered the hall when Dawn was in his arms. "Spike! Xander said you were here! I'm so glad!"  
  
And so, carefully, he told the story that he and Buffy had worked out, that he'd just been here a few days, that he was dogsitting for the neighbor, that he and Buffy had–  
  
But Dawn didn't care. She was all smiles, drawing him into the house, rather obviously not looking at that closed door to the second bedroom where her sister lay.  
  
"I could just tell! When you came to my graduation. That you and Buffy would get together! And–" Her eyes got dark, and her hand reached out for his wrist. "I'm glad you were here with her at the last. Hey!" She pulled him into Buffy's bedroom, where she and Willow had already scattered their things. "Look what I just found. It's like her secret box, the one she kept her treasures in."  
  
He stood by the bedroom door while Dawn went through Buffy's little cache of treasures. Of course, Dawn saw the diamonds first– she was like her sister that way, drawn to baubles. "You think these are real?" she said, holding the bracelet up to the light.  
  
"Look real to me. Probably ought to have it appraised. Might help you out with grad school tuition."  
  
Dawn slid it onto her slender wrist and held it up to him to admire. She was still wearing the bracelet with the gold key, he noticed, on the other wrist. "Or maybe I'll just keep it and wear it. Let the Watchers' Council pay for grad school."  
  
"That's a plan." There would be some funds, Buffy told him that much, a life insurance policy, a retirement account. Dawn wouldn't be destitute.  
  
She set the diamond beside her on the bed and went through the photos, silent now, gazing at each for a long moment before laying it aside. "I should be broken, huh?"  
  
He regarded her for a long moment. She'd grown into a beauty, all sleek hair and limber figure. She didn't look at all like her sister. "I guess you've been through this before."  
  
She didn't look up as she stared at the photo of her mother. "Twice." Dawn picked up all the photos and squared them and went through them again. "Once she died, and once you died for her. I don't know that I can mourn that much again." She looked up at him. "I knew this would happen. Sooner rather than later."  
  
"She knew it too."  
  
"Did you? Is that why you're so calm?"  
  
He shrugged. But it stuck with him. They'd all been waiting for her to die. Waiting for the tension to cease, for the inevitable end to occur. They'd all done their mourning years before.  
  
Maybe that's why, when she was dying, she decided to die alone.  
  
He couldn't blame her. But he couldn't blame them either.  
  
Finally Dawn came to the bottom of the box and pulled out a slip of paper. She read it through and then held it up. "I think this is for you."  
  
He came over and took it, and saw Buffy's scrawl. _I do so love you, you stupid vampire._ He stared at the message for a minute, then said, "Maybe she meant it for Angel."  
  
"Nah," Dawn said. "She wouldn't call him stupid."  
  
"You're right."  
  
Dawn was still looking up at him, her hand closed on the diamond bracelet. "Why did she put the note in here, you think, instead of giving it to you?"  
  
Damn Buffy, to leave him with so much explaining. He looked at the note again, and said carefully, "We had an argument. I wouldn't let her say it."  
  
"No wonder she calls you stupid."  
  
"Yeah. Well. She probably meant to put that in my bag before I left, so I'd find it when I was far away and couldn't argue."  
  
"You were going to leave her then." Dawn's voice was measured.  
  
He folded the note up and put it in his shirt pocket. "Not soon. I have the sublet on the flat next door. Two more months paid in advance."  
  
Dawn smiled, shook her head. Then she jumped up, spilling the box and the photos and the bracelet to the floor, and ran to him. She pushed her head against his chest and whispered, "I'm glad you were with her. I'm glad you loved her."  
  
  
  
Giles arrived by cab from the airport, jetlagged and battered, the last to arrive (except Angel, who had to wait for the sun to set). He kissed Dawn and Willow and shook Xander's hand and left them sitting silent in the living room as he followed Spike next door.  
  
"You can sleep here," Spike said, leading him to the spare bedroom. "Dawn and Willow said they want to be in her room. And Xander is staying over there on the couch."  
  
Giles dropped his bag and opened his briefcase to remove a folder. "I have–" He stopped and looked around, as if he didn't quite know where he was. "She filed this letter of instruction with me years ago. Just in case. Updated it last year."  
  
"Yeah," Spike said. "Figured you'd know what she wanted."  
  
Giles looked down at his folder like there was some answer there. And there was, of sorts. "According to the instructions, she wanted her ashes scattered in Sunnydale. She wanted to be near her mother."  
  
Spike nodded. She'd told him that, over and over, till it felt like she was squeezing his heart in her fist– and he promised and promised and promised to make sure Giles made it happen. "Yeah. That sounds like what she would have wanted. To be near her mum."  
  
He turned away, stared blindly out the window. It was more to give Giles a chance to recover than anything else. Spike had about cried himself out already– in secret while Buffy was still with him, and in the alone-time since. She was gone. He'd done his best to make that easier for her.  
  
He knew he ought to look devastated. He ought to fall apart. The cover story required it. After all, he'd supposedly just dropped by a week ago, stayed to slay a bit with her, and failed to save her when she needed saving. The old Spike, the one who almost dusted himself after she died the first time, would be prostrate with grief and guilt.  
  
But he couldn't even fake it. He'd had a month of hiding his grieving, and it ate a hole in him, and all he could do now was stare out the window at the dark. "Maybe you can handle that. Take her down to Sunnydale, you and Dawn and Xander and the other humans. That way you can do it in daylight. She'd like that."  
  
Giles didn't answer. He probably couldn't answer. Instead, he said, "I need to know what happened that last night."  
  
Spike felt the panic rise. Quelled it with contempt. "Oh, right. For your Watchers' Chronicles. Longest lived slayer, brought down at last."  
  
"Tell me."  
  
So Spike took a deep breath and put his hand flat against the window pane. It was cool under his palm. "We went out to that cemetery at the old mission. Buffy had heard that there was a vamp lair there." This was the story she'd drilled him on those last days. "So we took stakes and an axe. Didn't think to take daggers. Didn't expect to see demons, specially Leflox Longhorns."  
  
"They are not native to California," Giles observed. He probably pulled that information up on his Blackberry.  
  
Spike didn't turn around to see. "Yeah, more the prairie type. So we were up there by the mission, just scouting, and three of them jumped out of the old bell tower. I mean, they jumped. They were up by the bells. One landed right on me. I figured a stake in the eye might work, but it didn't do much. Finally had to grab the horns and twist them off. That worked."  
  
"But Buffy–"  
  
"Had two of them to deal with. I went over to help her. We killed them both. But one had gotten her in the belly. Everything was... spilling out."  
  
This last was true. Buffy had to maneuver to get gored that way, but she managed it. "I tried to hold her together, but–"  
  
The pane broke under his hand. New glass. Broke not into gratifying shards to pierce his palm, but little safe pebbles that fell at his feet. Ah. All right. There it was. The grief. The guilt. Still there. Not exhausted yet.  
  
Giles gave him a couple minutes. Maybe Giles needed a couple minutes himself. Finally he said, very quiet, "Was she conscious at the end?"  
  
Spike felt the ocean breeze through the broken window. It was cool on his wet face. "Yeah. Mostly. Last words were about Dawn. We're supposed to watch out for her." That was true too, except there were a few words after that– _Be happy. Or else._  
  
"We will," Giles said. "Dawn is employed with the council. And we'll make her first assignment in California. If you're still here."  
  
Spike nodded. Couldn't speak. He'd said his piece, anyway. Said what she wanted him to say. Buffy the Vampire Slayer died with her boots on. Killed in action. A heroic death for the Watchers' Chronicles.  
  
Too cynical. She wanted this ending for her friends, so they would think she died for some purpose. So they wouldn't feel any guilt. Now they wouldn't, because Spike had been there, and if it had been possible to help her, they knew he would have done it.  
  
Just bad luck, and a bad demon, and an unavoidable death so long evaded.  
  
"We'll do the cremation tomorrow night," Giles said. He glanced at his watch. "Tonight, that is." He was taking charge again. That seemed to help him cope. "So you and Angel can attend."  
  
"Right. There's a beach on the peninsula. Pretty isolated." He should know. They'd made love there last week, huddling under a blanket. Spike had gotten sand in his mouth and was spitting it out for two days. "We do the bonfire under the cliff, an hour or so before sunrise, and no one will know."  
  
So the next night he stood with his arm around Dawn, watching as the flames leapt up and consumed Buffy's body. She looked okay, there in the fire. She'd chosen to do this before she started wasting away. Her body was thin, but that was nothing new. And though Dawn cried, seeing the consuming, she saw only her sister, killed in honorable combat. Not a ... a victim.  
  
The humans had to wait till the remains were cool enough to scoop up, and so they left that afternoon with the little satchel of ashes and bone, headed for Sunnydale.  
  
  
  
  
Spike waited in his flat, hand on the sleeping dog's warm back, until the sun set. Then he walked down the hill to the neighborhood pub, where there was an oak bar under the soft lights, Irish music on the jukebox, and Anchor porter on draft. He was into his second pitcher when Angel walked in. They had spoken briefly on the beach, but not since, and he waited for Angel to sit down across the booth.  
  
Instead Angel came up and cuffed him hard on the back of the head.  
  
"Hey!" Spike rubbed at the knot already growing behind his ear. "What was that for?"  
  
Now Angel sat down, or threw himself down anyway, grabbing Spike's mug and drinking deep. Then he shoved the mug back across the table. "You should have told me, you son of a bitch."  
  
He knew. Of course he knew. He was a predator too, under all that Armani. When he saw her body in the pyre, he knew.  
  
"She didn't want me to tell you."  
  
"Why the hell not? I had a right to know."  
  
"It's not about you." That seemed obvious– but you always had to remind Angel of that. Those damned Powers told him it was all about him, and he believed it. Spike added, "She didn't want you to know."  
  
This shut Angel up, but just for a moment. "I could have helped."  
  
"Yeah. Well, she wouldn't have accepted your help. And then what?"  
  
"I would have–" And he shut up again.  
  
"You would have left." Spike went on relentlessly, still feeling at the knot on his head. "She wouldn't listen to you. Wouldn't let you help. So you would have left. And she didn't fucking need to be left."  
  
"You, of course, didn't leave."  
  
"No."  
  
"And you didn't call me and didn't let me find someone who could–"  
  
"She didn't want that. She had her reasons. She made me promise."  
  
"And you did exactly what she wanted. Pussy-whipped. As always."  
  
Spike's anger flared. "You don't know–" Then he closed his mouth. No use for it.  
  
Angel got up and went to the bar and came back with his own glass. Without comment he dropped a plastic bag of ice in front of Spike. Then he sat down and poured a beer from Spike's pitcher. "I'll get the next one," he said.  
  
"I didn't –" Spike pressed the ice bag against the bump on his head and drew in a breath. "I didn't do everything she wanted."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I didn't kill her. She wanted me to kill her." Then he felt like he'd betrayed her, and added, "I don't mean she gave in. She just wanted a warrior's death. By a warrior's hand. But–"  
  
"But you couldn't." Angel drained his glass and set it down carefully on a coaster. "Don't blame you."  
  
"I had to–" He couldn't go on. He pressed his fists to his temples and wondered when it would end. He thought he'd gone through it all, felt it all. How could there be more to feel? "She made me promise not to turn her. Made me promise not to save her–"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
He felt Angel touch his fist, tugging it down away from his face. But still he didn't look up, even with Angel's hand cool on his for a moment longer than needed. "It was hard," he whispered.  
  
"Yeah." And then Angel withdrew his hand. "But you stayed. That helped her."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
And they drank up the pitcher, and Angel bought another, and it was full night when he stood to leave for the airport and his private jet. "I'll send the plane back whenever you're ready." Angel was looming over the table. He laid his hand on Spike's shoulder for just a second, and then he was gone.


	6. Chapter 6

Spike had two months left on the sublease. So he just stayed there in the duplex, him and Kilo, walking in the park, killing demons (well, Kilo didn't help much with that), listening to a couple of old Clash vinyls he'd found in a used record store. (He'd had to buy a turntable too, $300, highway robbery, it was, but to hear the crackle of vinyl again, to hear Joe Strummer and static once more. Worth it.) Sometimes he crossed the porch to Buffy's flat– he kept paying the rent, and the landlord never showed up to object– and slept away the long afternoons in her bed.  
  
Charlie Gunn arrived, claiming he was on a business trip, but he didn't claim it too loudly once Spike pointed out he was sans briefcase. He tried to get Spike drunk enough to confide, but got so wasted himself that he collapsed on the floor in the second bedroom and didn't wake up even when Kilo cuddled up next to him. Spike finally got him into the limo to the airport (Kilo whining piteously) and promised to call every week and eat every day and listen to something besides the Clash and stop watching Casablanca every night for God's sake.  
  
Charlie was wasted as a lawyer. He should be a kindergarten teacher.  
  
Eventually the accountant appeared, late one morning when Spike was asleep, and he used his own key to unlock the front door, and he yelled, "Kilo!"  
  
But the dog climbed up on Spike's bed, which wasn't ever allowed– Spike had his rules, and enforced them, usually– and huddled whimpering against his leg.  
  
Spike got up, pulled on his jeans, and went out into the living room, Kilo crouched and low behind him. There was the accountant, all sleek and tan from his sojourn in Hawaii, bending down and staring at the old scythe leaned against the wall. It still had a bit of green blood on it– Spike had been too drunk the night before and forgot to clean it, and he could practically hear Buffy protesting in his head– she was always punctilious about weapons.  
  
"Yeah?" He said this ungraciously, but he wasn't feeling gracious.  
  
The accountant bristled in that CPA way, all debits and credits and outrage. He was wearing Spike's leather coat. "The sublet is up. Today."  
  
That was true enough. And it was time enough, Spike realized. "Yeah. Give me till sunset and I'll be out of here."  
  
The accountant took another look at the scythe and said, with more courage than Spike expected, "I'll have to charge you a hundred dollars for the extra half-day."  
  
"Sure." Spike had no intention of giving him another dime, but the assurance got the man out the door and back into his Lexus.  
  
There wasn't all that much to pack, and it wasn't long before Spike had three leather bags piled up by the door. Then he waited for the usual afternoon fog to roll in from the Pacific, and under its cover he drove Buffy's Mustang over to the used car lot and sold it. At a stop at the bank, he sent the payment electronically to Dawn's account.  
  
A sensible man might have driven the car first to Los Angeles and sold it there. But Spike had never been sensible, and besides, he was a vampire. He didn't need to own a car to get where he wanted to go.  
  
He returned not to his own flat but to Buffy's. He'd already packed everything that Dawn wanted and shipped it off, and there wasn't much left but the linens on the bed and the purple Prada overnight bag Buffy had left on the shelf in the pantry. On the strap was a tag with _Spike_ printed in Buffy's hand. He'd been putting off opening it. It was bound to hurt– some last request from Buffy, one last thing she needed him to do.  
  
He stared down at the zipper, imagining that inside were old journals she wanted him to send to Giles, or more likely to burn so no one would ever read her girlish ravings about the Back Street Boys or NSync.  
  
Then again, Buffy wasn't the journal-keeping type. So the bag was probably full of shoes, and he was supposed to locate some charity that could find good homes for a dozen pairs of size-6 Jimmy Choos.  
  
That made him smile. Then he sucked in a deep breath and unzipped the bag.  
  
Inside were four bundles. He pulled one out. It was hard and he could smell the metal through the wrapping of cotton pillowcase. Slowly he unrolled it– Buffy's favorite dagger, sheathed in leather, with one of her bright silk scarves, blue, tied in a bow around the hilt.  
  
The second was a wicked broadknife, with a red scarf knotted on the grip. And then there was a short-handled axe, a silver scarf diagonal across the silver blade.  
  
And finally he lifted out a short sword, sheathed in gold, a purple scarf flowing from the guard. A post-note was attached to the sheath.  
  
He hesitated. Set his fingers on the note, traced Buffy's handwriting without reading the words. And then, slowly, he pulled at it, and withdrew from the pantry into the kitchen. He crossed to the window and held up to the late afternoon light.  
  
 _So I'll always be fighting beside you._  
  
  
  
Kilo knew something was up, and he was waiting right by the luggage, panting. He loved riding in the car, and Spike didn't have the heart to tell him the car was no more. "Come on, boy, got some snabblits for you," he said, more to protect his bags from drool than to distract the dog.  
  
He was tossing a dog cookie up so that Kilo leaped over the couch after it when the accountant rolled up in his Lexus. The dog stopped short, the cookie gripped in his teeth, and stared at the door. His owner came in, dropping his keys on the hall table, all smiles now, hand held out to Spike. "We agreed on a hundred, right?"  
  
Spike didn't answer. He just gathered up his Godfather DVDs and started for the door. Kilo was right behind him, his claws clicking on the hard wood floor.  
  
"Hey! Wait! We said a hundred bucks! And leave my dog alone!"  
  
Spike turned slowly. Kilo was right there, his tail up, ready for action.  
  
He'd forgotten about Kilo. Not forgotten about him, but forgotten he would have to leave him.  
  
He looked down at the dog. Kilo had on that bright, interested face he put on when he thought he was going to get a run in the park. Sorry, chap, have to go– Spike was going to say that. But instead he heard growling. Not from Kilo. From himself.  
  
"I'm taking the dog. You abandoned him. Didn't even call to see how he was doing. He's mine now."  
  
The accountant took a step forward, his hand still out, palm up. "I don't think so. That's a Baluchistan terrier. Bred special. And you still owe me–"  
  
Spike felt his face harden, the ridges form in his forehead, his eyes getting hot and his fangs dropping low. "I owe you nothing. And the dog is going with me. Got it?"  
  
The accountant fell back till his knees hit the couch. He was staring at Spike's face, and no words of protest came out.  
  
"Agreed," Spike answered for him. "Come on, Kilo. We're going for a ride."  
  
As he passed the hall table, he grabbed the car keys, and Kilo barked excitedly. And they walked down to the Lexus, Spike popping the trunk open with the handy remote. Once he'd packed the bags and slammed the boot closed, he opened the back door and let Kilo and his sharp claws up on the leather seats.  
  
Past twilight, and sixty miles down the coast, he pulled into the parking lot of an oceanside Radisson. Kilo leaped out and went over to pee on the tires of a Hummer parked in the next row. Spike got the bags out of the trunk and looked around at the car hoods shining under the parking lot lights.  
  
  
He aimed the remote at another Lexus– no go. He had some vague notion that it had to do with radio frequency, not car model, and he wasn't surprised when none of the the cars in the lot responded. He dropped the remote key on the pavement and walked away from the accountant's car. Best to do it the old-fashioned way.  
  
From his bag he withdrew a flexible jimmy strip. Never knew when that would come in handy. He gazed around, his eyes narrowed, considering his options. Kilo was already bonding with the Hummer, but nah, not with gas prices so high. And not that beat-up Volvo with the baby seat in back. Better to go with an expensive car with well-insured owners. (Not to mention, more likely to have airconditioning and a superior sound system.)  
  
There. The Benz. A couple years old, but still shiny. Red for blood. And passion, all that. And it sported a red and blue **Jeb Bush 2008** bumper sticker. Practically begging to be stolen (and vandalized too).  
  
He glanced around for a security guard, but the parking lot was deserted except for Kilo, who wasn't the sort to object to a spot of thievery. He walked up to the car like it belonged to him, and slid the jimmy into the window.  
  
In the old days, he would have just broken the glass. But he was redeemed now.  
  
The lock popped up and he pulled the door open. Alarmed, of course, but he slammed the bags in the back seat and gave the cringing Kilo a swat to get him inside. Then he pulled the interior door panel off and yanked at the alarm wire. Silence fell, and Kilo sat up in the passenger seat, his tail back to wagging.  
  
It was harder these days to hotwire a car, but he'd gone to a W &H seminar last spring ("for informational use only!") on the latest techniques of circumventing ignition security. There was one involving steering column removal and a screwdriver (just like the one on his army knife) that felt just right, felt like the old way he used to steal cars, only of course since he was redeemed he didn't smash anything. He removed the column hood carefully and set it on the passenger side floor, then sat back with his cellphone and punched in the Devil's Code. He could almost hear the ignition sigh in defeat. Then he jammed the screwdriver in the keyblock– now that felt familiar, and he remembered how every time it thrilled Dru. She'd clap her hands and tell him how brilliant he was.  
  
Somehow he thought Buffy wouldn't be so full of praise. But then, she'd been happy enough when he stole that RV for her and got her crew out of town.... Great days, those Glory days. (Except for the torture and burned hands and Dawn being so scared.)  
  
The engine roared to life, German engineering at its best, and he jerked his thumb back, and Kilo jumped over the seat into the back and settled down next to the luggage.  
  
It took twenty miles before that damned conscience started bothering him. He palmed open his phone and dialed the number to his temporary home. "Yeah?" the accountant answered disconsolately.  
  
"Car's in a Radisson parking lot off Route 1. Come alone, and bring your spare key."  
  
"Uh... thanks."  
  
He didn't ask about the dog. Just as well.  
  
It was just midnight when he arrived at the Sunnydale crater. "Build near Lake Sunnydale!" the signs said, but somehow the buyers had never come. People weren't as stupid as real estate developers hoped.  
  
He pulled the car till it nosed the guardrail and, leaving the headlights on, he got out, carrying Buffy's Prada bag with him. He had never been back here, not since he left in cinders with that damned amulet of Angel's. Now he sat down on the guardrail, setting the bag beside him, and stared down into the lake that six years of occasional rain had made of his crater.  
  
The water was placid, stirred up only a little by the light breeze. The moon had set, and the only light came from his car, and that plowed two beams across the lake to the other side.  
  
He felt her here, or imagined he did. Imagined he smelled her ashes and her bones. But he was just pretending. Just giving way to desire. She was gone, and so were her ashes, and somewhere in this lake was all that held her.  
  
He rose, and one hand gripping the guardrail, he leaned forward until his fingers brushed the surface of the water. He brought the wet up to his mouth and closed his eyes. Tasted.  
  
Then, moving slow, he unzipped the bag and withdrew Buffy's dagger. He untied the blue scarf and let it go, letting the breeze catch it and pull it out over the lake. The purple and silver scarves followed, wafting like feathers up and then into the water. He held up the red scarf, felt the breeze catch it– and sensed Buffy.  
  
Or her scent, anyway, that vivid scent she daubed on evenings from the red-enameled bottle. "Just a bit," she'd say, "too expensive," though the bottle lasted longer than she did.  
  
He brought the scarf to his mouth and nose and breathed her in. Then he jammed the scarf into his pocket and said very low, "I'm letting you go. Stay with me."


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This the epilogue that you shouldn't read if you think Spike should stay true to Buffy forever. Please don't read this if it's going to bother you.

He dropped the luggage at his flat, and the car he left in a parking lot near Venice Beach, just a few blocks from Amita's club. Only then did he notice the dog asleep in the back seat. He shook Kilo roughly and leashed him up. Then they walked the dark streets– Kilo excited by the new scents, by the salt of the ocean so close– to the club. He left Kilo tied to a post in the alley behind. "Be tough," he said. "Bite if anyone comes near." The dog thumped his tail on the pavement, looking hopeful. Hopeless. That's what he was.  
  
When Spike entered the club through the backdoor, she was onstage, lithe and dark in her silver dress, both her hands on the old-fashioned microphone. She looked up and saw him, but finished her song and stayed onstage. She made some signal to the pianist, and then started singing the Billie Holiday song she had called him about, her voice smoky around the lyrics.  
  
 _It's that ole devil called love game_  
 _Gets behind me and keeps giving me that shock again_  
 _Put a ring in my eyes_  
 _Tears in my dreams_  
 _And rocks in my heart_  
  
He got himself settled in a booth with a Corona, and when the song was over, she came down the stage steps and, ignoring the outstretched hands of the men waiting, she crossed over and slid into the booth beside him.  
  
"Hey," she said, and leaned over to kiss him very quick, very light. "You're back."  
  
"Just." Maybe too much of an admission.  
  
But Amita tilted her head and didn't comment on this. "You've been up in the Bay, huh? Sick friend."  
  
"She died." It sounded desolate. But then, he felt desolate.  
  
"I know."  
  
He narrowed his eyes at her. "How do you know?"  
  
"That other vampire. The big dark one. Your boss."  
  
"He's not my boss," Spike said. "I don't have a boss. He's my grandsire."  
  
"Well, he came by last month. Sat by the stage. Made a couple requests."  
  
This diverted Spike just for a moment. "What?"  
  
"That Sinatra song about September. And Angel Eyes."  
  
"His name is Angel."  
  
"So he told me." She laughed. "He stayed for the second set too, and he asked me to sing that again. Angel Eyes." She closed her eyes and sang, " _Try to think that love's not around_  
 _Still it's uncomfortably near...._  
 _My old heart ain't gaining no ground,_  
 _because my angel eyes ain't here."_  
  
He always loved her voice, even now, when she was singing an Angel song. "So what did he tell you?"  
  
"That you'd been with a sick friend. And that you might be a while getting back, and I wasn't to worry."  
  
Amita. Worry. Not likely. "She wasn't just a friend. She was my lover."  
  
That didn't get the reaction he expected. But then, he didn't know what he'd expected– just not this. Amita took his hand and squeezed it. "I have just the song for you. For her."  
  
She thought in songs. It was disconcerting. There wasn't any song he could think of that she couldn't sing. She was always humming or breaking into snatches of melody. She read sheet music like it was People Magazine. And her pocketbook was full of cocktail napkins with scraps of songs half-composed.  
  
Now she left with a swish of metallic fabric. Onstage she sat down at the piano and started to play, something slow and elegiac. The Beatles. _But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you... in my life, I loved you more._  
  
He'd tamed it all before she came back to him, his face, his feelings. "Ready to go?" he said, and his voice was fine. Just like before.  
  
"Sure," she said, picking up her garment bag and slinging it over her shoulder. Then she took his arm, calling out a goodbye to the bartender as they headed for the back door. She was humming that song– _in my life, I loved you more_ – and he was about to call it a night, tell her to leave him, leave him to his memories and his loss.  
  
But then they emerged into the cool night, and for just a second there was just her melody in the silence.  
  
Then Kilo started barking. Joyously. Petulantly. Like it had been a month since Spike had tied him up.  
  
Amita was regarding Kilo warily.  
  
"Oh. Forgot to tell you. I got a dog."  
  
Kilo scented demon and bristled. The barking stopped and the growl started. Demon detection was the only thing he was good for, but he hadn't learned to discriminate.  
  
"Shut up," Spike said sharply, and Kilo fell to the ground, all terrified and shamed. "He's really a good dog."  
  
"He better be," Amita said, glaring at the dog. "Or I'm not coming home with either of you."  
  
That must have gotten to Kilo, because he was a perfect gentleman on the short walk home. He even tried to make up to Amita, and finally, as they entered Spike's courtyard, she relented enough to let Kilo walk beside her, his head bumping her knee to signify he worshipped her in a very humble and minionlike way.  
  
She accepted this as her due– Amita was used to acclaim– and even condescended to scratch his ears when he promised to stay very quiet in the living room and not bother them.  
  
"That's what he told you, huh," Spike said. He was skeptical of this. Sure, the Brax were known to have superior language abilities– that was one reason they produced such great singers– but Kilo was too stupid to formulate such a complicated sentence.  
  
Still, maybe she was right, because Kilo stayed quiet on the hooked living room rug when she came into Spike's arms, all metallic and warm and salty. "I need to shower," she said, breaking away from him. "Wait for me."  
  
He waited a minute, then followed her into the bathroom and stripped, dropping his jeans on top of her silver dress. She was singing, of course, only she sounded better singing in the shower than anyone he'd ever heard. _That ole devil love..._  
  
She turned when he got in beside her. Her body was sleek and shining with shower gel, and her purple hair was piled on top of her head with suds. "Hey, babe," she said, and kissed him, and her lips tasted like soap and water.  
  
He always had trouble making changes. He'd been used to Buffy's petite body, and Claire was no bigger– part of the attraction, probably. For months after he and Amita became lovers, he would be surprised to feel so much of her, the generous breasts to kiss, the arse that overflowed his hands. Then he got used to it. But now he felt her anew, all of her, the curves of her and the bounty of her. How sweetly and fully her body gave, no matter how much of her heart she withheld.  
  
  
  
He woke at dawn, just as she rose– as always, she was almost on her way out. She pulled a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt out of her bag and started to dress.  
  
"Stay with me."  
  
She glanced back at him, startled. They'd never said that before. Well, of course she never had. But he never had either.  
  
She said nothing for a long moment. Then she finished pulling the shirt over her head. "You got anything for breakfast?"  
  
He thought of his refrigerator. His freezer. "Got O-positive. And beer."  
  
This made her laugh, and she came back to the bed and bent and kissed him on the mouth. "I'll go out and get some bagels. And juice. Got to keep up my strength."  
  
She was half out the door when he said quietly, "Thanks for last night."  
  
Amita looked back, her face almost unreadable in the dimness. "You think I'm not coming back."  
  
He shrugged. "S'okay."  
  
"Tell you what." She snapped her fingers. "I'll take the dog. Then I'll have to come back."  
  
He waited till she had the leash on the sleepy Kilo before he decided she really meant it. "Okay, then," he said, settling back on the pillows and closing his eyes. "Bring me back one of those Egg McMuffins. And hashbrowns too. Kilo likes those."

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on LiveJournal in September 2005.


End file.
